


Kissed by Fire

by xiria14



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiria14/pseuds/xiria14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most nights, Jon can’t forget the cold, the numbness, the loneliness. Most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissed by Fire

  
It was cold, Oh so cold. He remembered Ygritte. Soft, yet firm. Wild, yet so pliable when he took her. Cold on  the outside, yet warm once her clothes were pulled down. They said kissed by fire. Fire everywhere, from the top of her head, sweetly, softly along her arms and then down her belly, gently burning the tip of his fingers when they reach the volcano between her legs.  
  
Kissed by fire, yet burning cold in his hands as he reached for her for a last embrace. Steaming cold as his lips pressed her’s for a last, sweet kiss. Frozen fire as he brushed one last time some fiery hairs off her brow. Fire molten to nothing as he watched the last remnants of smoke vanish with the wind, disappear into the cold of a snowy afternoon.  
  
 Cold. Always cold. Forever cold  as he watched the last of the fire burn down to nothing, standing freezing as a statue of ice. Icicles dangling down his lashes, sparkling under the blinding light of the sky. Frozen to his core as he walked back to his black brothers, to the cold, to the ice.   
  
Days and night passed and still cold he was. Days and nights passed, and still no torch, no warm mulled wine, no thick furs could bring out the cold in him. Days and nights became moons, and still, no way to forget the kiss of fire before the bite of ice, the numbness of cold. Until he does. Forget.  
  
\- - -   
  
“Good night, Lord Commander. May you find warmth to hold through the night, and wake among us in the morning. “   
  
Satin’s murmurs were soft, distant to his ears. It took a while to his numb, foggy mind to register his steward’s words. When he did, the young man was long gone, traces of him being there, of his warmth, long gone. Had he complained about the cold out loud, unknowingly of the presence of the man who was close to always at his sides? He couldn’t remember ever forgetting himself in such a way. Less in front of his young pal.  
  
He made it a point to himself to always show  the most complacent behavior, the best example to the men to whom he was the leader. The Night’s Watch would crumble if it’s leader, the strongest man among them, were to let himself get depressed by the cold. They had been reborn in it, their past life washed away by their vows. They had started their life anew in the ice of the wall, in  the snow of the end of the realm. They would live their life in the perpetual, agonizing cold, and they would die in it.   
  
He had chosen that life. The cold, the dark, the loneliness. He had chosen this fate of never-ending torment to wash off himself the sins of his bastardry. He who could have fought alongside a king. Who could have tried for a knighthood. Who could have lived peacefully the life of a maester or that of a septon. Who could have harvest fields and come back home to a loving wife and numerous little snow.  
  
He of all people could never be seen abated by the cold. Could never be heard complaining about the lack of warmth, or the absence of flesh under his hands when came the night. He of all people should accept his fate. The one he had chosen from himself.  
  
So he tried to forget. The cold, everlasting cold. The numbness that it brought to him. The loneliness. Ghosts of warm flesh, of fiery embraces, of burning pleasure sometimes haunted him. But he brushed them aside with his honor, oh so cold honor.   
  
A tug on the hem of his shirt made him rise the head. A caress alongside his tight. A pull leading him to furs. On the bed. Great expenses of white under his palms. Hairs so soft under his caressing hands. Silent purrs of invitation. Eyes burning hot piercing his heart, his soul. Kissed by fire. He had known it once, the pleasure of fire kissing him. He felt it again as he ran his cheeks against white, warm cheeks, his blushing nose against as pink a nose as his. His curiosity to the new caresses become assured, then adventurous.   
  
Drunken with the strongest wine of all, the one of desire, the one of lust, the one of forgetfulness, he hummed, and kissed, and moaned, and rubbed, and licked, bit, thrust against, rut against. Drunken with the wine of life, he found himself divested of his cold, stiff clothes, divested of his modesty, of his fears, and more than all, divested of the cage in which had trapped him his vows, words committed in the uttermost moment of innocent stupidity. Drunken with the wine of freedom, fire cursing through his veins like lava through snow, he was burnt, consumed, born anew in incoherent pleasure.  
  
He clawed, and bit and groaned like the wildest animal, like possessed by a great creature, stronger than himself, weighted down like a pup under a great wolf. Burning eyes transpierced him again, asking, demanding, commanding. And he submitted himself to those burning coils, let himself be drowned by the lust, be engulfed by this ultimate bliss.   
  
Voice raw with desire, he purred, and moaned, and groaned in the empty air, steam pouring out  of his mouth, his nose, the smallest pores of his skin, his everything. A bite through his neck, burning kiss, kiss of fire and envy, and lust, made him go silent. Gone was the man of cold and honor. Gone was the young sulky man who couldn’t see life otherwise than in shame. Gone was the boy of innocence and sadness. A beast remained, a predator, yet a prey. A hunter, yet letting himself be hunted. A force of nature, yet welcoming in his flesh the burning stung of a spear. Heart throbbing in his chest, as on hold. Fire pouring out of him in the ultimate ravishment. The most welcome death.   
  
\- - - -   
  
The young outcast child, the snow, the bastard of Winterfell, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, awoke to eyes red as fire, red as blood, red as ruby. Red as love. He ached, and itched, and hurt. Yet he had never felt as warm, as alive, as completed as in this moment. Humming in contentment, he huddled back in the warm embrace, forgetting all about the cold. Ghost nosed away a stray curl of moist dark hair, and licked at Jon’s forehead, his brow, his nose, lips, chin, cheeks. They both may be apart from their pack, alone in the cold, numb from it. But they were alone together, kissed by fire.  
  
End.  
  
   
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, it’s kind of a mushy, creepy weird fic. But it’s my first in a long while, and the first in the ASOIAF fandom. 
> 
> It answers to the prompt:  
>  Jon is lonely and curious, and his wolf has always been protective of him. He lets Ghost mate with him in the Commander's Tower. -Anonymous  
> It could respect it better, but I liked the ideas it produced. Sorry if it‘s not totally it!


End file.
